The rain tapped against the windows like an old friend trying to be let in. Inside the small apartment—faded yellow walls, the smell of coconut oil and incense lingering in corners—Ananya sat cross-legged at the edge of her mother’s bed.
It was late. The kind of late where the world outside felt paused.
Her mother, Sushmita, was lying sideways, her soft cotton saree bunched around her waist, grey hair loose, her glasses slightly tilted. She had been listening for over an hour as Ananya spoke about college, work, books, and safe, proper things. Things daughters are supposed to share with their mothers.
Ananya wanted to be that daughter. She really did.